


Love (and Other Monsters)

by iknowhowyoukiss



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 09:59:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15531786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iknowhowyoukiss/pseuds/iknowhowyoukiss
Summary: Emma Swan never believed in fate, just people who made their choices and shaped their own destinies. At least until a mysterious, self-proclaimed blacksmith promptly stormed into her life and proceeded to challenge everything she's ever known about kismet, love, and the tattoo on her ribs marking her as someone's soulmate.





	Love (and Other Monsters)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seastarved](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seastarved/gifts).



> HUUUUUUUUGE Thanks to my beta Sarah. This fic is basically yours and would not have gotten off the ground the way it did without you! I owe you the world (and some killer Mexican food)! Also, to the lovely mod at Captain Swan Supernatural Summer for organizing this fun and unique event! You're a rockstar and I love you :) Special shoutouts to my artist, Svenja (winterbythesea), for the gorgeous artwork she did to accompany my fic -- it's so special, thank you! -- and also to Chinx (seastarved), who had inspired this fic with her fandom Pretzel Week a few years back! Xx

Some might say it was fate the way it all happened, how Emma Swan boarded a ship meant for the icy waters of Arendelle, and instead ended up in the neighboring kingdom of Misthaven. She would argue, however, that a severe storm simply forced them to seek the safety of the nearest harbor, and by the time the weather cleared enough to resume travel, she’d merely decided not to get back on the vessel.

 

Nevermind that a chance meeting with a dark-haired, pixie-faced woman, named Snow White, was about to set into motion a series of events that would essentially alter the course of her life. See, Emma didn’t believe in fate, just people who made their choices and shaped their own destinies. Snow, on the other hand, was the complete opposite. 

 

She was also probably in possession of the kindest disposition Emma had ever come across. After a few shared pints at the tavern in port while waiting for the storm to pass, she discovered that Snow was -- _shhhhhh_ \-- a princess by birth, a confession that hardly surprised Emma, due to the numerous ‘tells’ Snow had. Emma hadn’t spent too much time with royalty, but she had certainly spent enough time with the common folk to know the difference, and the tale was still fascinating in its own right, even with Snow’s hiccupping.

 

Having been on the run from an evil witch of a stepmother for almost a decade, the other woman, despite her drunken stupor, easily picked up on Emma’s own desire to escape an unpleasant past. She’d denied it, of course, because she wasn’t _running_ , so much as looking for a fresh start. That was her story, anyway, and she was sticking to it. 

 

Whether it was under the influence of the alcohol or not, Snow tipped her glass to her in approval of the sentiment before chugging the last bit of her drink and promptly falling asleep at the table, much to Emma’s amusement. 

 

An easy camaraderie was born from that, and two days later, the newly turned friends found themselves caught in the crossfire of a battle between a menacing group of trolls and a shepherd who called himself David Nolan. His beloved mother’s ring had been stolen by them, and Snow, whom Emma quickly discovered had a knack for always doing what was right, volunteered their services to assist with its retrieval. 

 

It was a bad idea, if there ever was one, which she could have told Snow, if she thought the woman would actually listen to her. After all, Emma didn’t travel halfway across the world to have her head almost clawed off by a troll and its nasty set of dagger-sharp nails, all for some ring that didn’t even belong to her. It was almost worth it, though, especially since she was the sole witness to David and Snow’s incessant bickering, and the only reason it was even remotely interesting was because their attraction to each other was ridiculously obvious.

 

They’d gone and fallen in love at the end of their little adventure; it was clear as day to Emma, the two flirting like champs and casting longing glances at each other before parting ways. Emma and Snow went one way, and David the opposite direction. But it wouldn’t be the last they’d see of him, and when he’d finally worked out his feelings, it was impossible to keep him away. 

 

Snow didn’t mind, of course, being as head over heels in love as she was, and even if Emma would rather cut off her own tongue than admit it, neither did she. 

 

And so their merry duo became a merry trio.

 

Ruby came into the fold next, or rather, her wolf form did almost six months later -- right on the doorstep of their humble abode, just past midnight, and on the first night of a full moon. Her whimpering disturbed their sleep, drawn them all from bed, and when they opened the door, she stared up at them with pitifully sad, pained eyes. An arrow was embedded in her side and Snow, being Snow, rushed to her aid. David and Emma had no choice but to help, and they’d spent the rest of the night tending to the poor animal. 

 

For two more days and nights, they’d taken care of her, and on the fourth day, she shifted back into her human self, naked as the day she was born and startling them all. Emma’s reflexes were quick and she jumped to cover David’s eyes while nudging at Snow’s leg with her foot and nodding at the blanket pooled around Ruby’s waist.  

 

After a proper change of clothes and a bit of breakfast, Ruby regaled them with a story about a girl and a wolf who were actually one and the same. It was a curse, she told them, one passed down from both her parents, and one that they’d failed to mention to her. She began turning at age thirteen, years after her parents had passed, and it was her grandmother who had taught her to control the beast inside. Her grandmother was gone too, just recently, leaving Ruby alone in the world and left to fend for herself. 

 

Emma didn’t even have to look at Snow to know where her thoughts were headed in regards to the lone wolf. David glanced briefly at her, his smile soft and knowing, and it made Emma sigh quietly to herself. At the rate their little group was expanding, they were going to need a bigger place soon.

 

Several moon cycles passed, and the crew was quietly discussing Ruby’s ‘condition’ amongst themselves in a quiet corner of the local tavern one night. Emma argued that it was just not practical to house an oversized wolf in a small living space crammed with three other adults; Ruby agreed, and frankly, she was tired of sleeping outside where she often ended up on werewolf days. Snow insisted that it was not an inconvenience while Emma  glared and David wisely kept his mouth shut on the matter. 

 

As they began to discuss alternative methods of the magical variety that might ease Ruby’s plight, Emma noticed a petite, long-haired brunette woman settle down on the far end of their long table. She angled her body further into the group and reminded everyone to keep their voices down, but when David mentioned knowing someone who might be able to provide Ruby with an elixir that could help, Emma _swore_ she heard the woman mutter something about potions and how they don’t break inherited curses. 

 

At Snow’s own suggestion, Emma _definitely_ heard a scoff and an incredulous, ‘ _unbelievable_ ,’ and when she chanced a glance over her shoulder, the woman appeared to be sitting much closer than she had been earlier. Ruby chimed in then, and Emma distinctly made out the telltale noises of shuffling behind her. When she looked back again,  the eavesdropper was less than two feet away from them. Emma shifted anxiously in her seat, turning even further into the neat little square of the group with a baffled look for them. 

 

Before she could recommend taking their conversation elsewhere, a polite voice jumped in, “Excuse me? I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear,” -- Emma  fought to contain her snort at that -- “But did you say you were a _werewolf_?” she asked Ruby. 

 

Her name, they found out, was Belle and she had a deep, abiding love for books and adventure. She was well-versed in mythical creatures, for no other reason than she loved learning about them, and in the end, it had been she who had dismissed their ideas as ‘ _verging on ridiculous_ ’ and  directed them to a seamstress that was able to fashion a magical cloak to keep Ruby from turning during the full moon. It was a bright, vibrant red, patterned with an embossed velvet over the thick fabric and was exactly where Ruby’s nickname, “Red,” had sprung from.

 

Belle hadn’t left immediately after, and much like David and Ruby before her, ended up sticking around for an indefinite amount of time. Emma was starting to feel a little crowded at home, but for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel _lonely_. So despite occasional grumblings of them all absolutely needing to find another place to live, she sat at their table for three meals a day, laughed with them at David’s antics, and groaned alongside Ruby and Belle when the lovebirds displayed too much affection.

 

Things were good for awhile after that, the group welcoming -- even if begrudgingly, on Emma’s part -- the chill of winter and endless days of snow. Robin had come along not long after that, a thief with a reputation for robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. He was an old friend of Snow’s, had actually taught her how to survive in the woods and mentored her in archery, and he was in dire need of assistance. 

 

A witch from the West had unleashed her hoard of flying monkeys on Robin’s hometown in Sherwood Forest, and he was severely lacking in the manpower to fight them off. There was no question on whether they should help or not, and the next morning, carrying what supplies they could and with not one weapon in hand, the group set out for battle.

 

It was just past the sunset hour by the time their little six-person cavalry  arrived. Only half the team had any real fighting experience, but Belle proved to be scrappy, using her environment -- namely large sticks -- to ward off as many monkeys as she could, while Ruby, sans cloak, allowed the light of the moon to bring forth her own beast so she was able to team up with Belle. Emma wouldn’t necessarily deem herself an expert, but she knew how to wield a sword if the occasion called for it, and while Robin and Snow took to the trees with their bow and arrows, Emma stayed on the ground fighting back-to-back with David.

 

The combat was lacking desperately in efficiency and organization, but they won and that one act had sealed their reputations as monster hunters. The coming year would see them grow as warriors and as a team the more requests they got to help with one creature or another, sometimes in neighboring towns and other times further away, and eventually, much to her chagrin, Emma came to be known as the Savior. 

 

She would still argue that she is the furthest thing from that. She’d hardly even call herself their leader, but by unanimous agreement, they do that as well. They might be an eclectic bunch -- the bookworm, the ex-princess, the farm boy, the shapeshifter, and the archer -- but they are incredibly loyal and _hers_ , and that’s all she could ever ask for.

 

The blacksmith, on the other hand? He’s a different story.

 

He’s new blood within their ranks, the man who showed up with Belle late one evening when the wind was howling and the rain plinking noisily against the windows of the manor. Belle spoke on his behalf, wondering if they had room for one more, and though Emma knew from the look on her face that Belle meant for more than just a place to stay for the evening, all she gave the stranger was a discerning once-over with her frown before imparting Belle with instructions to take him to the vacant room in the East Wing.

 

His name is Killian Jones. 

 

That was all the information Belle willingly offered up to her when Emma sought her out later that night for another word on their mysterious new guest. 

 

“You can count on him,” Belle assured her, smile soft as she continued shelving a pile of books she’d borrowed from their massive library.

 

“Can I?” Emma wondered, giving the other woman a skeptical look with her arms crossed over her chest.

 

“What, isn’t my word good enough?” 

 

She sighed at that, studying Belle for a long moment until she met Emma’s gaze and gave her another encouraging smile. 

 

“You’ve been spending too much time with Snow,” she grumbled, and while their resident ex-princess was notorious for bringing in strays, it appeared that Belle was eager to continue the legacy.

 

“We all turned out alright,” Belle chuckled.

 

The ‘ _so will he_ ’ was unspoken but she heard it all the same. Emma rolled her eyes skyward as she turned towards the door to take her leave. He could stay. As a guest of Belle’s, he was welcome to stay at least until the torrential downpour of rain passed, no questions asked. But beyond that? Well. They’d have to see. 

 

That was nearly a week ago, though, and with Belle championing him at every opportunity, Emma’s had no choice but to allow him to remain. She knows very little about him still, save for what Belle’s told her and what she’s managed to pick up on her own in his interactions with the others. He’s quiet, but his observant blue eyes are full of intelligence. He’s a fair navigator, interestingly enough, and has surprisingly extensive knowledge of the seas, which happened to come up during a debate with David who has never even set foot on a ship. While she tucks that bit of information away for later contemplation, she also discovers that he’s a great strategist and an even better swordsman. He does appear to be in a constant state of brooding, though -- or flirting, depending on his mood. 

 

(And strangely enough, Emma’s.)

 

Looking back, it does seem fitting that he arrived when he did, the storm raging outside a perfect match to the one in his eyes. It worried her then, the wariness of his gaze and the shadows that lingered there. It worries her still; she knows what vengeance on the mind looks like. He hasn’t outright said as much, of course, but it’s there. 

 

That’s not the only thing that bothers her, either. Something else nags at her, leaves an unsettled feeling between her shoulder blades while curiosity grips hold and makes her wonder. A dangerous thing, to be sure, to find a stranger with -- what appears to be, anyway -- a complicated past interesting, particularly one she hasn’t decided can be trusted. 

 

Then there’s that odd pull in her abdomen, the tingling over her skin that is both foreign and incomprehensible every time their eyes meet. It’s bizarre, if not troubling, but she still can’t quite put her finger on what it is about him that sets her on edge. Perhaps it’s the ‘blacksmith’ bit. 

 

The hook he’s got for a left hand, his affinity for leather and kohl, and the swagger in his gait don’t exactly scream ‘ _blacksmith_ ,’ let alone an innocent or harmless one at that. But she knows better than anyone that everyone’s got their demons and secrets they’d rather not share, and as long as his don’t outright endanger them, she doesn’t care to press too hard about them.

 

If she’s going to be honest, she not even sure if he’ll last through the summer. He just doesn’t seem like the ‘roots’ kind of person. No, he’ll go where the wind pushes his sails, waltz out of there as easily as he had waltzed in, and them? They’ll continue on as they always do.

 

It’s for the best, she imagines.

 

* * *

Late one evening, on her way to join David at the stables to assist with the birth of one of their mare’s foal, she notices the door of the library slightly ajar. She peeks inside, interested to see who would be up at such a late hour, and discovers Killian standing behind the large desk on the far end of the room. There are heaps of books piled up on it. Belle’s a big bookworm herself so it’s hardly a strange sight, except that he has an unusual amount of stacks -- at _least_ seven -- that cover every inch of available desk space. Emma moves a little closer, pushing at the door and poking her head into the room. Her brow quirks at the four books open in front of him, as well as the one he’s idly flipping through in his hand.

 

“Are you in a reading competition with Belle or something?”

 

He glances up at her question, and she starts, wide eyes blinking in rapid succession as she has the complete and utterly female response of thinking he looks handsome by firelight. Ridiculously so, what with the flames in the hearth casting light and shadows across the chiseled angles of his face. It’s quick, nothing more than an abrupt jolt of appreciation that comes as quickly as it goes, but the echo of it -- much to her chagrin -- remains.

 

“No,” he replies. “Though I imagine if she could have her way, I’d be thoroughly immersed in _Her Handsome Hero_ rather than any of these.”

 

Emma almost snorts at that. “It’s a tale of-”

 

“‘ _Compassion and forgiveness_ ,’” he finishes, rolling his eyes. “I know. Sounds more like a cheap romance if you ask me.”

 

There is no heat behind the gesture and the smile he gives her is so disarming, that against her better judgment, Emma steps fully across the threshold. She doesn’t get too close, but near enough that she recognizes many of the titles of the books he’s collected for his perusal. “Well, compared to that, these are an interesting assortment...if rather specific.” 

 

He smiles again, this time knowingly, and looks back down at the book balanced on his hook and arm. “Just doing a bit of research, Swan. Monsters come in many forms, and if I’m to be fighting alongside you, I’d at least like to know what I’m fighting.”

 

Her eyes narrow at that, at the telltale feeling that zips up her spine, the one that’s only present when someone is very clearly lying to her. She nods once, the warning bells in her head tolling, and she has to will her body to relax as she proceeds to wear a path into the floor. She hopes her tone is as casual as her pace when she says, “We’ve got our standard beasts -- dragons, basilisks, chimeras-”

 

“So I’ve gathered,” he interrupts. “Also, a small population of ogres and trolls it seems, according to this book-”

 

“Krakens, leviathans, hydras…” Emma shrugs at the way his brow lifts curiously at her, then reasons, “We live near the coast.” She pauses for a beat and then, perhaps _too_ bluntly, wonders, “So, is there one in particular you’re looking for?”

 

Killian snaps the book shut, setting it down before fixing her with his very amused gaze. “Are you always this suspicious of people, or is it just me?” 

 

“It’s just you.”

 

“I’m flattered-”

 

“You shouldn’t be.” 

 

He chuckles at her and the sound makes her cross her arms over her chest. 

 

“Who are you and what are you _really_ doing here?”

 

“I told you, Swan, I’m just a blacksmith.”

 

Their staring contest continues until Emma shifts forward, dropping her eyes briefly to find space for her hands to rest so she can lean against the desk. “Let me let you in on a little secret,” she tells him quietly. “I’m pretty good at knowing when someone is lying to me.”

 

The expression he gives her is considering, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip while his eyes bore into hers. At the rate they’re going, it’s incredibly likely that they’ll end up standing there scrutinizing each other for the rest of the night, and she thinks it’s possible that she might just have met her match in stubbornness. But then he sighs, and it’s heavy with resignation. He reaches up to scratch at the end of his eyebrow with his thumb. 

 

“I’ve been hunting a monster of my own,” he admits. “One that took something from me.”

 

Involuntarily, her eyes flit down to his hook. His tone is clipped and he doesn’t offer any further details, but it’s as she suspected. Everyone’s got their demons, some just more tangible than others. Emma wants to prod further, to ask why and when and how, but the haunted look that comes into his eyes makes her hesitate. She knows it far too well herself -- _loss_ \-- and this time, when she looks at him, she thinks that perhaps it was more than just his hand.

 

It happens again, the tug in her abdomen, this time more pronounced and focused to her side, and she unconsciously lifts her hand to brush across her ribcage. She has no time to dwell on the feeling, though, because there’s a commotion in the hall and when she turns her head, she sees Snow and Robin racing down the corridor. Snow calls for her, reminding her about the foal, and with one last look to Killian, she takes off after them.

 

* * *

Several more weeks pass before they receive another job: a desperate plea from a local village to slay a dragon terrorizing their small seaside town just ten miles north of the manor. They ride out at dawn against the biting chill of the morning, Emma in the lead with Killian and David flanking her rear, and the rest of the troop behind them. It isn’t unnatural to feel some tension amongst the group on battle days, but there’s quite a bit that morning, more so than usual. Maybe because it’s Killian’s first fight alongside them and they are nervous to see how the day will unfold.

 

Or maybe they’re simply taking cues from her energy and her own apprehension.

 

Emma was right to be anxious, however, because when it came down to it, she’d had to save him. In an act of what she assumes was sheer stupidity, he carelessly offered himself up as bait and nearly got his head incinerated. He had drawn the beast’s attention away from the rest of them and lured it away to deal the killing blow. 

 

‘ _He can be trusted_ ,’ Belle said.

 

‘ _He’s reliable_ ,’ Belle insisted.

 

_Pffft, please._ She’s _seething_ mad, marching right up to him and poking a finger into his chest while they stand in the middle of a clearing, the dark purple beast and its glittering form just off to her left. Its talons may have been sharper than his hook, but neither of them are as deadly as her tone. 

 

“What the _hell_ was that?” 

 

His countenance is utterly blasé, eyes shifting back and forth from her face to her hand. “What the hell was what? I slayed a bloody dragon.” He leans down so their faces are scant inches apart. “You’re welcome,” he winks before straightening.

 

Her temper flares, little pinpricks of heat that warm her cheeks and tingle under her skin. “Were you dropped on your head as a baby or are you just really this dense?”

 

His brow, just one _infuriating_ brow, arches up towards his hairline at the question -- or maybe the aggression in her voice, she can’t be sure -- and the corners of his mouth tug up the longer he continues to stare at her.

 

“You could have died!” she snaps.

 

“Well, Swan, as you can see...I’m quite well, thank you.” 

 

He sweeps his arms outward, bowing slightly, and her free hand curls into a fist, tingling with the desire to punch him. The only reason she doesn’t is because there’s already a cut on his cheek, little but deep (and bleeding quite a bit), and one that she imagines will leave a scar. 

 

“Look, I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but we’re a team. Nobody does anything stupid, nobody tries to be the sacrificial hero and save the day-”

 

“Wait, wait,” he interrupts, waving his hook at the rest of their colleagues that have begun to gather around for the show. “I thought that’s what the lot of you did -- _save the day_ -”

 

“Yeah, we do,” she agrees. “ _Together._ That’s the point you’re missing. We do this as a group or not at all. Risking your own life is not only dangerous and _irresponsible-_ ”

 

“Oh,” he cuts her off again. “ _Ohh_ , I see what this is about.” He reaches up to brush her braid off her shoulder, smile widening into a grin. “Darling, if you cared about me so much, all you had to do was say.”

 

The urge to swat his hand away is strong, but she refuses to give him the satisfaction. “I care about each member of this team, and if they have to worry about _you_ , they’re not worrying about themselves and their part in the plan, a _plan_ that was put into place to ensure as much of our safety as possible.”

 

Something flashes in his eyes, makes the blue burn bright and challenging. He steps further into her space, crowding her, and Emma lifts her chin defiantly, firmly holding her ground. If he means to intimidate her into backing down, he’s doing a piss-poor job of it.

 

“Battles are rarely pretty, love. Sometimes there are casualties and sometimes there aren’t. Today, there aren’t.” 

 

“And what about tomorrow?” 

 

He bites back on whatever retort is poised on his lips, watching her intently, tongue poking into his cheek.

 

“This is my team,” she tells him, hushed but fierce. “My _crew,_ and maybe our methods aren’t up to your standard of combat, but I will not have you endangering their lives. So you can either buck up and get on the same page with the rest of us and be part of this... _thing_ we’ve got going on or you can do what you do best and be alone. Is that clear?”

 

He jolts at that, head tilting back slightly as he stares down at her, and there’s a fascinating shift in his expression that gives her pause. 

 

“Aye,” he murmurs. “Crystal.”

 

She turns from him then, tearing her eyes away before storming off. 

 

_Reckless, arrogant, smug son of a bitch._

 

(She misses the way his hand closes around the inside of his arm, how he unconsciously rubs the place just below his brace as if to soothe a sore spot while his stormy eyes trail after her.)

 

* * *

It’s past midnight when she hears it -- two quiet knocks against the heavy wood of her door. To her surprise, Killian is standing just outside her threshold when she opens it, chin tilted down and scratching behind his ear as he looks at her sheepishly through his lashes.

 

“Ah...Swan,” he says, clearly unsure of what to lead with. “Sorry to bother you, I know it’s late, but Dave said you were the last to have the healing ointment.”

 

Her eyes are immediately drawn to the wound on his cheek, no longer bleeding but now swollen and twice as red. The annoyance she felt from earlier sparks back to life momentarily, but it’s late, and she’s too exhausted to pick a fight. She nods, her gaze flitting back to his before she moves away to retrieve the jar from her nightstand. Words continue to be difficult even after she hands the small container to him and it’s apparent that some strain still exists between them due to their little altercation on the battlefield.

 

“Um,” she starts, the prolonged silence beginning to ring in her ears. “Put some on before you go to bed and twice more tomorrow. It speeds up the healing time so you should be right as rain soon enough.”

 

“Thanks,” he replies, and Emma simply shrugs while he pockets the jar. “Fairy magic?”

 

“Yeah, just a little. Do you know Reul Ghorm?”

 

“The Blue Fairy? Aye.”

 

“She had a troll issue. They were kidnapping fairies and harvesting their wings.”

 

“Dark magic.”

 

“The darkest sort. We stepped in and Blue repaid us in kind.” 

 

He tilts his head at her and his mouth moves as though he means to say something, but it’s all he does and the silence stretches awkwardly on. It’s interesting, that the words don’t come when he’s generally so good at them, but perhaps even more interesting is the look he wears: creased forehead, pinched brows, expression lacking its usual shadows and cynicism. She might even dare to call it... _soft_ , almost. It makes her jittery for some reason, makes her shift her weight from one foot to the other while wringing her hands and chewing on the inside of her bottom lip.

 

“I have to admit,” he tells her. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”

 

Emma swallows thickly, throat abruptly dry. “Done what?”

 

“This,” he gestures with his hand. “Been a part of something, a ‘crew’ so to speak.”

 

“You’re not a blacksmith, are you?”

 

It makes him chuckle, low and gruff in the space between them. “No, I’m not.”

 

“A sailor, then?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“Do you always speak in riddles?” she huffs.

 

“Only to irritate you.”

 

She makes a face at the little smile that curls his lips. “Well, you succeed often.”

 

“I know.” His stance relaxes then, and he leans his shoulder against the threshold of her doorway while his eyes search her face. 

 

She wonders if she’ll ever get used to the easy way he shifts between moods. Brooding one minute, light and flirty the next, honest and vulnerable after that. It makes her head spin.

 

“It beats being alone.” The words are out before she can stop them.

 

“Yes, well, perhaps I just needed a little reminding that I could... _care_ about something other than myself.”

 

There’s a shift inside of her and she recognizes it immediately -- understanding. By the way he’s looking at her, she realizes he must recognize it as well , and the knot in her stomach twists itself tighter.

 

His gaze is penetrating in its intensity and it’s so much --  _too_ _much_ \-- that Emma has to look away. Her words are stuck in her throat now, but she is saved from the would-be embarrassment of having to bumble through a response by an abrupt thud in the hallway and the cursing of two very familiar voices that follows it. She moves forward, sticking her head out of her room and glancing down the wide corridor with Killian.

 

Belle and Red are a tangled mess on the floor and by the way they scramble to get up and right themselves, along with the apologetic smiles and the little wave they greet them with, she knows that they’ve been eavesdropping. The glare she sends them is cutting, a warning if there ever was one, and they scamper away to their rooms, calling out their farewells as they go.

 

She isn’t aware of how close she’s gotten to Killian until she turns and can feel the heat emanating from him. Her breath catches and she hates herself a little bit for being unable to control it.

 

(Hates herself a little more when it becomes evident on his face that he’d noticed and can’t be bothered to hide it.)

 

“I, ah...suppose I should get to bed as well,” he says, smile verging on something akin to shyness as he reaches up to scratch behind his ear again. 

 

“Me too,” she murmurs.

 

“Thank you for the ointment.”

 

“You’re welcome. Goodnight, Killian.” She steps back into the safety of her room and away from the uncertainty that resides beyond it. 

 

He hesitates only a moment before following after her, reaching for her but not quite touching her. “Swan?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Killian stares at her a second more, but instead of replying, he glances down and slips his hand into the pocket of his coat to produce something for her. Something that makes her stomach somersault thrice over -- a sprig of bright blue Forget-Me-Nots. 

 

“Goodnight, Emma,” he says, holding them out to her.

 

She takes them gingerly from his grasp, fingertips lightly brushing against his as her cheeks warm to the same rosey hue staining the tips of his ears. He turns then, casting a final glance in her direction before he rounds the corner at the end of the hall and leaves her standing there, flabbergasted, holding flowers she’s not quite sure what to do with. A dull, aching warmth pulls at her side, a feeling only overshadowed by the confused and conflicted feelings circling in her chest. He’s long gone by the time she gathers her bearings enough to close her door, and yet, somehow, he lingers.

_ TBC _


End file.
